LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THORNS AND FLOWERS 



BY 

LOUIS BELROSE, Jr., 



"Mon verre rt est pas grand, viais je bois dans mon verve:' 

Alfred de Musset. 



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•No. 3S S L 
>t> 1879. .<* 



PHILADELPHIA : 

PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR. 

1879. 



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Copyright, 1879, by LOUIS BELROSE, Jr. 




I wandered where the spring had decked a glade 
With blossoms native to the forest wild ; 
And clambered where the mossy rocks were piled, 

To breathe the perfume and enjoy the shade. 

Then plucking random bud and brier/ made 
This simple wreath, admiring like a child ; 
But now, as if my fingers had defiled, 

The leaves all wither, and the colors fade. 

If worth acceptance, take it, and the vale 

Shall furnish what the warmer days have born ; 
But if, unskilled to please, endeavor fail, 

Let pity mingle with deserved scorn, 
For though the flowers that I touch grow pale, 
My blood has tipped the point of every thorn. 



CONTENTS 



Sonnet 3 

The Tale of an Ancient Mariner 1 1 

j." he Talking Oak 38 

The Leaf and the Kiss 61 

To those by whose Influence the Motto, " In God We Trust," 

was put upon the Coins of the United States. 65 

A Centennial Prayer, 1876 70 

A Drinking Song 73 

Light and Gladness 75 

Song 77 

Must I Choose ? 78 

April Sun 80 

April Showers 81 

A Prescription 82 

Nirvana 8^ 

5 



CONTENTS. 



SONNETS. 

To a Fair Advocate of Woman's Rights S5 

To Harriet 86 

" O Nations ! " 87 

Solitude 88 

The True Divinity 89 

After Reading the Motto, " In God "We Trust," upon a Coin 90 

To Mr. E. Littre 91 

Sympathy 92 

Poor France 93 

The same continued 94 

" How to be envied is the lot of those " 95 

"Ilonnetir et Patrie. " 96 

The same continued 97 

" When love was only love " 98 

The " Virginius " Affair 99 

Toast to the New Year 100 



CONTENTS. 



7 



Introduction to a Poem ioi 

" Full often when my way is long " 102 

To my Little Neighbor 103 

Over Head and Ears 104 

The Language of Flowers 105 

False Suspicion 106 

"Souvenir du ier Mars, 181 5 " 107 

The same continued 108 

In the Forest of Compiegne 109 

To President Grant on Reading the Dispatch Concerning his 

Secretary of War no 

Early Spring in 

Upon the Proposition of Amnesty for the French Communists 112 

After Dinner 113 

Another Term 114 

" Sad is the flower " 115 

Rouge et Noir 116 

" Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream " 117 

August 15th, 1875 1 J 3 

The same continued 119 

A Broken Promise 120 



8 CONTENTS. 

To Sitting Bull 121 

Acrostic 122 

" Nay, judge me not " 123 

La Fornarina 1 24 

Peace 125 

My Lady's Hair 126 

My Lady's Mole 127 

My Lady's Nose 1 28 

My Lady's Ear 129 

My Lady's Feet 130 

" I'd gathered in my lady's bonnet " 131 

My Lady's Mouth 132 

Love-Longing 133 

" While yet a child " 134 

Ambition 135 

Byron 136 

Cervantes 137 

r Ordre Moral 138 

The Marshal's Manifesto 140 

The Marshal's Rubicon 141 

Another " Offence " 142 



CONTENTS. g 

MacMahon Soliloquizes 144 

The Marshal's Second Capitulation 145 

The Marshal's " Ministry of Affairs " 146 

Imperialists 14S 

Orleanists 149 

Legitimists 150 

Clericals 151 

The Sacred Heart 152 

Sister Simplice 153 

On the Death of Pious IX 1 54 

On the Republican Gains in the Elections of March 3, 1878, 

France 155 

" I would to heaven I'd been born a priest " 156 

" I loved a dame " 157 

A V Opera , 158 

The Man in the Moon 159 

Backgrounds 160 

A Sketch 161 

A Swiss Scene 1 62 

" Thou oft hast told me" 163 

"La blessure guerit, mais la marque rested 164 



IO CONTENTS. 

" Their faith may be groundless " 165 

A Future Life 166 

" The sweetest visions haunt me ever " 167 

My Philosophy 168 

Emancipation 1 69 

ioo° in the Shade 170 

Midsummer 171 

A Parable 172 

To J. R. Lowell 173 

On Reading a Sonnet by Longfellow 174 

The Writing of the Iliad 176 

A "Waterscape" 177 

Spiritism 178 

" Well, well, I've lost my heart again to-day ! " 179 



THE TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

THIS tale was writ by one who now is dead — 

A sailer in the ships upon the sea. 

Poor soul ! a tempest drove him on a lee- 
Shore, and upon his flesh the dog-fish fed. 

When Atropos's scissors cut his thread 
And cable both at once, there came to me 
This yarn, which shows what spinning there must be 

When woman turns the heart, and rhyme the head. 

Poor fellow ! we were chums for years at school, 
And though his wit was hardly then first-rate, 
Nobody ever thought he'd make a fool. 

But love soon worked him into such a state 

That I was forced to let our friendship cool. 

How sad to die so young and yet too late ! 

ii 



12 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

When I was young and life was dear 

I sailed about the sea, 
And there amid the boisterous waves 

Found sweet tranquillity. 

For woman — bless her — by the rule, 

Was left upon the shore ; 
It isn't well that she should dwell 

Aboard a man-o'-war; 

And so when once the sail was set 

We bade good-bye to care, 
Like men who knew no Delilah 

Could catch us by the hair. 

Or if, on leave, by some mishap 

We lost a lock or two, 
We'd go aboard, increase our hoard, 

And wait until it grew. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 1 3 

But man in single-blessedness 

Is never quite secure, 
And this could not be always thus, 

Nor even long endure ; 

For he who stands the middle watch 

And gazes on the skies, 
Must either turn his thoughts to love, 

Or else philosophize. 

And I did both. When Venus shone, 

Before the break of day, 
I wished that I could take a stroll 

Along the milky way. 

Or, when Diana led the chase, 

Methought if I were Mars, 
The men that make the almanac 

Might count on other stars. 



1 4 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

Then sometimes, anchored in a fog, 
When things grew awful dull, 

I'd dream of metaphysics and 
The incognoscible. 

Philosophy ! Philosophy ! 

But in the torrid zone 
How cope with the "unknowable," 

Or even the unknown ? 

Alas ! alas ! all flesh is grass ; 

And grass is hay when dry, 
Which maketh us combustible 

Beneath a tropic sky. 

And it grew very warm that cruise — • 

'Twas in the Caribbees ; 
I haven't felt it so much since 

By several degrees. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 1 5 

And this it was revealed the truth 

(Which I'm discoverer of) 
That heat, a mode of motion, 

Is yet a mode of love. 

O strange correlativity ! 

Transmigratory one ! 
I'll write an ode on that some day, 

And call it, "To the Sun." 

" Father of life and light," I'll say, 

Or words to that effect, 
" How wonderous, how glorious 

Art thou ! though somewhat specked. 

" My feeble fancy fain would climb 
Thy genealogic tree, 
And trace through space till time efface 
Thy hazy pedigree : 



1 6 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

" Would travel to the utmost verge 
Of ancestorial mist, 
To watch the waking of the force 
That gave the primal twist ; 

" Then mark the metamorphoses, 
Through varied pull and shove, 
From planetary genesis 
To protoplasmic love ; 

"And onward to the tender thrill 
That agitates my breast 
When beauty — ' ' but, by Jove, enough ! 
I fear that I've digressed. 

Where was I ? Oh ! — the Caribbees- 

Yes, it grew very warm, 
And certain signs were manifest 

Which indicate a storm. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 1 7 

The storm it burst and did its worst ; 

It blew and blew and blew, 
Until I swore I'd go ashore 

And evermore lie to. 

Now seamen young and seamen old, 

Before it be too late, 
Upon the danger of my course 

'Twere well to meditate. 

The dread of things we know not of 

Should make us rather stand 
A sea of troubles on the sea 

Than fly to worse on land ; 

For love's a flame and flesh is hay, 

As proven here above, 
Which doth explain exceeding plain 

We shouldn't play with love. 



1 8 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

So when your blood begins to boil 

And fizz beyond control, 
Do what I should have done myself — 

Get orders to the Pole. 

Of course, amid the bears and ice 

It may be hard to dwell, 
But better far turn Esquimaux 

Than roast outright in — well, 

Confound the word ! it always comes 
When this theme's treated of; 

So many endings rhyme with hell, 
So very few with love. 

And here connected with my tale 

It may not seem amiss, 
If I respectfully submit 

A short parenthesis : 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 19 

Beside the stormy Chesapeake, 

On placid Severn's shore, 
There lies an antiquated town, 

Not far from Baltimore. 

And in this town of old renown 

A vast academy, 
Where youth may learn all things in turn 

Pertaining to the sea. 

May learn the rules which regulate 

Our courses by the sun's, 
And teach the young idea to shoot 

Both great and little guns. 

May learn to make and shorten sail, 

To tack and eke to wear, 
And work the fleets that may be built 

When cash is not so rare. 



20 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

With many more accomplishments 

Which their estate beseem ; 
To fire torpedoes apropos 

And navigate with steam. 

But though to fit them for the sea 
This course is wisely planned, 

There's nothing in the whole four years 
To fit them for the land. 

And such remarkable neglect 
Has grieved me all the more, 

As seamen oftenest, like ships, 
Are lost upon the shore. 

For man may brave Poseidon's wrath 
And flout the darts of Mars, 

But when the sea-born goddess strikes, 
Egad, look out for scars ! 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 21 

What courage so invincible ? 

What fortitude so mighty ? 
What heart so steeled but it must yield 

To Venus Aphrodite ? 

Now since they're taught in self-defence 

To use the sword and glove, 
Why not continue one step more 

And teach them how to love ? 

Should time prevent, the Board might lay 

The chaplain on the shelf; 
And if no better can be found, 

I'll take the place myself. 

In fact, though modesty forbids 

Allusion to my worth, 
It may be I'm the very man 

To occupy that berth ; 



2 2 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

For I've employed in deep research 

A dozen years of toil, 
And made a most remarkable 

Expense of midnight oil. 

By which I've learnt, with careful use 

Of methods quite my own, 
That, as to laws of motion, love 

Resembles the cyclone. 

A storm that's only dangerous 

When navigators fail 
To see by shifting of the wind 

Which way they ought to sail ; 

And which, to those who understand, 

Becomes an aiding force, 
That often serves to fill their sails 

And help them on their course. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 2, 

So rules in case of storms at sea, 

Mutatis mutandis, 
Cover the peril greater still 

That met with on the land is. 

Therefore, if what I now propose 

Should gain due approbation, 
I hope to pay with interest 

The debt I owe the nation. 

I'll teach the art of lying-to 

Upon the proper tack, 
Whereby one obviates the risk 

Of being ta'en aback ; 

As also, if the storm approach, 

How near it's safe to stay, 
And when to stand and ride it out, 

And when to run away. 



24 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

With every delicate device 

That seamen need employ 
To 'scape the gyves of would-be wives — 

Sweet partners of our joy ! 

But, as regards my narrative, 

I'm painfully aware 
That simple technicalities 

Are neither here nor there. 

So now, to hasten on our way, 

We'll just select a few 
Of those in turn who made me burn, 

And pass them in review. 

The first, that is to say, of course, 

The first in this connection, 
For ere my legs wore pantaloons 

My heart was in subjection, 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 2$ 

The first was young — was very young, 

But ripe beyond her years ; 
With all the woman's wealth of bloom 

Without the woman's fears ; 

With every grace of form and face 
Enhanced by passion's yearning, 

Yet all the sweet unconsciousness 
That burns nor knows the burning. 

Taller than most ; of that proud growth 

Of solid flesh that's seen 
Where Tiber turns between the hills — 

A pure Trasteverine. 

The blue-black hair that seemed to cast 

A shadow on her liquid eyes 
Fell straight, without a wave, beyond 

The large voluptuous thighs ; 



26 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

Fell heavily and smooth, and damp 
And cold upon the velvet skin, 

Whose dusky pallor hid the glow 
Of rich, warm blood within. 

Hid it except where on the cheek 

It flushed the pale disguise, 
And where the lips in virgin bloom 

Were ripe for sacrifice : 

Were ripe, but guarded by an arm 

That I shall ne'er forget J 
Jesu, what muscle ! 'Pon my soul, 

My ears are ringing yet. 

Her features, charming when she smiled, 

At rest resembled those 
That tell us of the Roman dames 

On ancient cameos. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 2 J 

And soon there came a sweet reserve 

At times, that would suggest 
The gravity of strong desire 

By stronger will repressed. 

Her motion was a gallant ship's 

That helm and sail obeys : 
The bosom that she proudly bore 

Had never hung in stays : 

A bosom fit for any god 

To rest his head upon ; 
But now, alas ! — ah, who can tell 

What those six babes have done ? 

Finis. — The next was gentle, blonde, 

Calm, continent and meek, 
Nay, chaster than an eight-day clock ; 

I loved her for a week. 



28 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

And might be loving still perhaps, 

Had not another fellow 
Stepped in and run away with her 

Before my plan was mellow. 

And thus abruptly terminates 

Adventure number two — 
But really I've enough of this; 

Kind reader, haven't you? 

Don Juan, as the story goes, 

Booked over ninety score ; 
Which must have been, beside the sin, 

A most infernal bore. 

And then I ne'er got far enough 

To make it interesting : 
Virtuous, simple, poor and plain — 

It's not worth while protesting. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 29 

O youthful innocents, before 
. You love be sure you're rich ; 
An empty purse, except in verse, 
Wins neither dame nor . 

For beauty's well, and wit is well, 
And courage sometimes counts, 

But all combined must fall behind 
Your cash in large amounts. 

Ah, let me leave this saddening theme 

For one that brings relief, 
Lest "saddening doubly" by its length, 

My tale be brought to grief. 

Ah, let me turn from charms that smite, 

To dam my weeping eyes, 
And tell of her whose love is peace — 

Whose worship makes me wise. 



;o TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

Long, long ago, while yet a boy, 
There passed among my dreams 

A vision, hardly seen at first 
Except in fitful gleams ; 

But which as time went slowly on 

Became, or seemed to be, 
The figure of a woman veiled, 

And bright ineffably ; 

Till like a star that glows at eve 
When veiling beams depart, 

The gradual beauty of her face 
Came forth and filled my heart ; 

Filled all my being with the warmth 

Of uncontrolled desire, 
Lighting my spirit as a flame, 

And chastening as a fire. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 31 

No longer seen but in my dreams, 

A phantom of the night, 
That only lingered till the dawn 

To fade before the light, 

But ever present drawing me 

Away from meaner things, 
To follow it through all the world 

In all its wanderings. 

Brighter the vision seemed to me 

Than aught on earth beside, 
More worthy of a man's desire 

Than any mortal bride. 

No longer did I waste my love 

On every passing maid ; 
'Twas hers — all hers, and when she smiled 

I felt it all repaid : 



32 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

A smile, a hope that led me on 

Over the land and sea ; 
A promise for the years to keep ; 

A guide incessantly. 

And often as we went she'd change, 

Be distant, dark, or clear 
And brighter, than she'd been before, 

As if the time drew near 

When I should, clasping her my own, 

At once fulfil the quest, 
And gain for constancy reward 

Of peace and joy and rest. 

Around the Mother Isle we roamed, 

The dear old Motherland, 
Where oft she came so near I 'most 

Might touch her with my hand ; 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 33 

But then the wind would westward blow 

Over the dismal sea, 
And bring with soft, enchanting clouds 

A veil of mystery. 

And on I went throughout the weird 

Fair lands beyond the Rhine, 
Where tints from many a golden tress 

Lurk in the golden wine ; 

But ever drew my love away, 

And in her distant eyes 
Appeared, through rifts of gathering mist, 

The light of other skies. 

Little the heart that lives apart 

Within a state's confine ; 
Little the wit that's cut to fit 

A nation's border line : 



34 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

But yet must sympathy prevail : 

Long live my Fatherland ! 
France ! May her foes forever fall ; 

Her friends forever stand ! 

Then came I, westward journeying, 

Unto the banks of Seine, 
Where meet the waves of Burgundy 

And waters of Champagne : * 

When lo, my guide took leave of me, 

And smiled an ait revoir 
So sweet that I was full of joy,. 

Knowing the time not far. 

How lightly beats the careless heart 

That all along was sad ! 
None but the sons of sorrow know 

The joy of being glad. 

* The map and context would indicate Charenton, but the 
author probably meant Paris. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 35 

And lightly went my steps, for now 

In many an open door 
I met the long-familiar friends 

Seen but in dreams before. 

Streets where I'd often in my sleep 

Passed with uncertain tread 
Were thronged with living multitudes 

For noon-lit miles ahead \ 

And right and left the by-ways ran 
Through all the country round, 

So vast I rubbed my eyes and then 
Stamped on the solid ground. 

'Twas real ! Up and down I went 

Through every part, and came 
Back to the place I'd started from 

At early dawn, the same 



36 TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 

In which the vision last had smiled, 

And where I'd lost a shade 
I found in lovely flesh and blood 

A breathing, smiling maid. 

Like, but how much more beautiful ! 

Her presence seemed to be 
Surrounded by an atmosphere 

Of perfect sympathy : 

Without a fault, without a line 

To fairly question of, 
Yet all her gracious features still 

But handmaids to her love. 

I never had the gift of gab, 

And so my words were few ; 
In fact, to tell the honest truth, 

I'd rather bill than coo. 



TALE OF AN ANCIENT MARINER. 37 

But mindful of my long attent, 

She promptly named the day ; 
And good old father Littre 'twas 

Who gave the bride away. 

O cullers of eclectic sweets, 

Ye know not, never can, 
The peaceful joys that recompense 

A fitly-married man : 

Then when the withered heart hath ceased 

Preliminary aching, 
And wedded union sanctifies 

Prosaic baby-making. 

But here my tale must have an end, 

Like others, false or true, 
With all the getting ready done, 

And all the work to do. 



THE TALKING OAK. 



THE TALKING OAK. 

LIFE'S varied seasons fraught with pain 

Have each its own peculiar joy ; 

This cheers the babe, and that the boy ; 
'Tis love, ambition, ease or gain : 
But though the greatest oft attain 

An ecstasy beyond defining, 
None come so early nor remain 

So long as that of dining. 

And though the nations each advance 
A claim for some unequalled dish, 
Some excellence of game or fish, 

That prejudice will oft enhance, 

When once you're weaned (before, perchance, 
But that's a question might embarrass), 

There's no place in the world like France, 
And none in France like Paris. 



THE TALKING OAK 39 

Here cooks are born, here cooks aspire 
Through mystic art, pre-Raphaelite, 
With almost nothing, if not quite, 

To calm the hungry soul's desire. 

When heated on that sacred fire, 
The pride of their vocation, 

The merest grill becomes a lyre 
Aglow with inspiration. 



And then the waiters' looks reveal 

A sympathy with him that feeds ; 

An instinct that divines the needs, 
Which if you don't you ought to feel. 
No vulgar bustle, but a zeal 

So mixed with tact you scarce observe it ; 
For me I own that half the meal 

Is in the way they serve it. 



40 THE TALKING OAK. 

What wonder if, when tinged with blues 
By actual or fancied ill, — 
A falling rent, impending bill, 

Unfaithful dame or distant muse, 

I leave my cheerless rooms and choose 
Some house of ancient reputation, 

Where solid comfort gently woos 
To liquid consolation ? 



If there I stow myself away 
In some snug corner all alone, 
And straight to willing ears make known 

An inward need of holiday ; 

Then call the trusty sommelier 

And hint the nature of my sorrow ? 

It's ten to one he'll find a way 
To calm it till the morrow. 



THE TALKING OAK. 4 1 

Alone, I said, but what I mean 

Is unaccompanied by guest 

Or friend ; alone among the rest 
Of those the vesper shades convene : 
Who come to feed, to talk, be seen, 

Solicit or supply temptation, 
Or else, like me, to give their spleen 

A good deoppilation. 



I like all sorts of solitude ; 

The mountain, forest, vale and sea 

Have each a different charm for me, 
Adapted to a different mood : 
But then they're apt to make you brood 

Too long before your sorrow hatches, 
If out of sorts ; a process food 

With good old wine despatches. 



42 THE TALKING OAK. 

Old wine ! what liquid melody 

In these two words ! what visions rise 
Of all things good beneath the skies, 

Of all things good beneath the sea ! 

And yet, alas ! how often we 

O'erwhelm with floods of senseless twattle 

The wealth of whispered poesy 
Exhaling from a bottle. 



Think not I grudge the tribute due 
Of pure libations freely poured 
To friendship round the social board ; 

Not I ; but faithful friends are few ; 

While bottles, whether false or true, 
Before they set the soul a-flowing, 

Must pour their contents into you ; 
Which warns one if he's knowing. 



THE TALKING OAK. 43 

Nor judge me so devoid of grace, 

So impious as to underrate 

The pleasures of the tete-a-tete ; 
I own the charm of loosened stays, 
And well-fed woman's winning ways, 

But that's beside the question ; 
Love's not my theme — and then, it plays 

The devil with digestion. 



Westward beyond the city's zone, 
(So called because to pass you pay), 
There lies the wood of Rouveray ; 

An ancient forest, better known, 

What's left, as taking from Boulogne 
A name you hear until you're 

Inclined to think "the boy," half grown, 
To some was most familiar. 



44 THE TALKING OAK. 

But this of course can hardly be, 

Whereas what I shall now relate 

Is easy to authenticate ; 
I had it from an old oak tree. 
Don't smile as if you doubted me ; 

They talk ; and for a sample 
Of what they've done in verse just see 

The Laureate's example. 



Salut ! — 'Twas thus : one afternoon 
Unoccupied I sauntered forth, 
And shaped my course say west by north 

(It's always pleasant here in June), 

To listen to my wood -birds' tune; 
A favorite distraction 

While summer's in her honeymoon, 
And fresh enough for action. 



THE TALKING OAK. 45 

Which ere I knew had taken me 

Beyond the grounds of Bagatelle, 

Where seven strokes upon a bell 
Disturbed my gentle reverie. 
Quoth I, no park can ever be 

So fit since Eve became a sinner, 
As is the Chateau dc Madrid 

About the time for dinner. 



And there I went. You know it, eh? 

Ah, really ? Well, it's worth your while 

To go. You'll find it near a mile 
Beyond the walls, upon a way 
That skirts the bois ; but simply say 

Madrid, and any cab will take you. 
On foot you couldn't go astray, 

But then your legs might ache you. 



46 THE TALKING OAK 

My dinner was, as you'll infer, 

A good one, for of course you know 
The castellan of this chateau 

Is famous as restaurateur ; 

And should King Francis' spirit err 
This way, the valiant chevalier, 

Beside creating quite a stir, 
Would find most royal cheer. 



But spirits, hang it, never budge 
Unless you pay them, now-a-days, 
While he who enters this place pays, 

And roundly too, if I'm a judge. 

It's more than I can do to grudge 

My money when I'm pleased, however 

Your calculating man's a drudge, 
For all he seems so clever. 



THE TALKING OAK. 47 

And then it's not so much the mere 

Eating and drinking counts with me, 

As 'tis the nicer luxury 
Of perfume, shed from souvenirs. 
And that is in perfection here, 

For those who like it aromatic, 
As Francois when he chased the deer 

Made this his home venatic. 



You know it's generally agreed 

That he was monstrous fond of fun, 
But had, comparatively, none 

While lingering captive in Madrid ; 

Which made him feel, as soon as freed, 
Like ordering a forest chateau ; 

For he was keen for hounds and steed, 
And fresh as a — tomato. 



48 THE TALKING OAK. 

And thus it is that once there stood 

A place for royal high carouse, 

Where now there stands an eating-house. 
Thus then as now the wine was good, 
And thus the deer that roamed the wood 

Were brought (they mostly then were game ones), 
And some were fed, and some were food, 

The wild ones and the tame ones. 



The night was calm ; the birds that sing 
At vespers now had gone to rest, 
And with the flowers, joy-oppressed, 

Were dreaming of departed spring. 

The moon was up, and everything 

Conspired to work a charm, and so forth — 

Which prompted me to have them bring 
My coffee and to go forth. 



THE TALKING OAK 49 

Then choosing out a cozy place 

Beside the railing, near the gate, 

I sat me down to contemplate : 
And happening in my chair to face 
That ancient oak about whose base 

You'd look for Druids a priori, 
I tried to make my thoughts retrace 

What would have been its story. 



The night was still, and it was late : 
From time to time a silver laugh 
Would sound some bottle's epitaph, 

Or crushed beneath a coupe! s weight 

The gravel would expostulate ; 

Then silence — then the fragrant rustle 

Of skirts retiring would create 
A momentary bustle. 
4 



50 THE TALKING OAK. 

But soon both sights and sounds went by 
Unnoticed, and I sat absorbed 
In gazing where the moon, full-orbed, 

Between the branches cocked an eye, 

And seemed to smile in sympathy; — 
Gazing until there came a whisper, 

As if from leaves when almost dry, 
Or, may be, somewhat crisper. 



At first I thought it was the wind, 

But then I seemed to catch a word. 

And finally was sure I heard 
Articulation well defined. 
Now miracles of any kind 

Had never yet occurred to me, 
In fact their place was not assigned 

In my philosophy. 



THE TALKING OAK. 51 

But then I'm one of those that own 
What is, although they can't explain, 
And this time doubting was in vain. 

I thought of Mr. Edison — 

But phonograph and telephone 

Together would have failed to clear it ; 

And certainly the moonlight shone 
Too strong for any spirit. 



I looked around, but couldn't see 

A soul outside or in the flesh ; 

And now the thing began afresh — 
It surely was that ancient tree — 
And, what was more, it spoke to me ; 

And spoke in French the purest, 
Barring some words apparently 

The language's maturest. 



52 THE TALKING OAK. 

" Excuse me, sir/' it said ; " surprise 
Is natural — do I interrupt ? 
I see you've dined " (its word was supped) ; 
" I thought that age might authorize 
An indiscretion. Oh, don't rise; 
I couldn't possibly be seated — 
No, nothing; thank you. I'll be wise. 
My sap's now overheated. 



" We seldom talk to men, it's true, 

But if we did they'd seldom hear , 
For that requires a special ear, 

Which, sir, I'm glad to find in you. 

The fact is, I was getting blue 

For want of just such conversation ; 

These sticks are not worth talking to, 
With all their 'cultivation.' 



THE TALKING OAK. 

" How times do change ! When I was youm 

We treated age with some respect ; 

But now these upstarts here object 
To listening, so I hold my tongue. 
A pretty lot to live among ! 

Why, sir, the trees of that complexion 
Used to die out, or never sprung, 

With natural selection. 



'•' Those were the days; and then such sport 
Old stags that often used to dash 
Beneath my branches, with the crash 

Of hound and hoof, and all the court 

Following hard in royal sort. 

And big wild boars in hundreds rooting, 

Where now your gentlemen resort 
For what's called pigeon-shooting. 



54 THE TALKING OAK. 

" You'll think that I'm a royalist. 

But no. The rings about my core 

May still be what they were of yore, 
As first impressions will persist ; 
But every summer swells the list, 

And every ring, as time advances, 
Makes up its fibre with a twist 

To suit the circumstances. 



'And now, sir, I'm republican. 

But, bless your soul, must such as I 

Give up their tastes and turn canaille, 
Because they preach the rights of man ? 
Cordieu ! why since the world began 

No two things yet w r ere ever equal ; 
All bagged by some low partisan, 

That's what will be the sequel. 



THE TALKING OAK. 55 

' But there — I hope you'll pardon me 

For this, it's one of my old tricks; 

Whenever I talk politics 
My sap, though no one disagree, 
Gets all worked up, as if a tree 

Were authorized to turn haranguer ! 
W r e might make poles for Liberty, 

Or lend a branch to hang her. 



"And wherefore should we thus repine 
At others' sins and others' wrong, 
When all our lives might glide along 
So pleasantly? We've rain and shine, 
Why fret if men lack bread or wine? 

It only makes us die the faster ; 
Look at this wasted trunk of mine 
Half full of stones and plaster. 



56 THE TALKING OAK. 

" No use ! I've tried : it's in the grain. 

But, thank my stars, from time to time 

Through every branch there seems to climb 
A genial warmth of summer rain ; 
Old memories come back again 

Of youthful days, and on occasion 
I quite forget the moral strain, 

And sing a song Rabelaisian. 



" ' Though Fame beguile, 

And Fortune smile, 
One toast shall e'er be mine — 

A blooming lass, 

A brimming glass, 
And a tear for aula 7 lang syne. 



THE TALKING OAK. 57 

" 'If friends should fail, 

And foes assail, 
Need honest heart repine ? 

With a blooming lass, 

And a brimming glass, 
I'll live in auld lang syne.' 



That's Rabelais; bless him, though his rhymes 

Were always bad, I loved the man ; 

So jolly — when he once began 
(I've heard him sing a hundred times) 
His voice would drown the castle chimes, 

And then itself be drowned in laughter 
On some odd whack at faults or crimes, 

A game he still was after. 



58 THE TALKING OAK. 

" The stories that he told, I grant, 

Were broad ; but here he forced the note 
To suit the times, and when he wrote 

The worst were not found dissonant. 

He laughed and loved — despising cant — 
With all his great heart, warm and mellow; 

Hated by priest and protestant ; 
Reformer and good-fellow. 



It seems to me if I'd the luck 

To be a man I'd strive to be 

So hated of hypocrisy. 
I'd strike it, as old Rabelais struck; 
I'd bare both arms, and run a muck 

Against the sow and all her farrow. 
But read him : ' Break the bone, and suck 

The substantific marrow.' 



THE TALKING OAK. 59 

Perhaps, and rightly too, you'll say, 

That when he'd strangers to divert 

He killed his pigs before dessert ; 
That was the master mocker's way. 
But I'm all out of sorts to-day. 

Such nonsense, too. For all my growling, 
I couldn't bring myself to slay 

A single little sowling. 



" I really hope you wont suppose 

I can't be cheerful ; bless your heart, 
Just let me get the proper start. 
One doesn't see such larks as those 
I've seen for nothing. If he chose 

To play propriety he couldn't. 
I've often tried to make them close 
The curtains, but they wouldn't. 



60 THE TALKING OAK. 

il No further back than yesterday — " 

Here the tree stopped. Then came a sound 
Like Monsieur thrice ; I looked around, 
And heard the boy go on to say, 
"JVe craint-il pas Thumidit'e, ?" 

I thought it was becoming chilly, 
So asked him what I had to pay, 
And felt a trifle silly. 

I'd let the latest hour go by, 

Hoping that oak would tell a few 
Of those good things I knew it knew. 

The cabs were gone ; the moon not high 

Enough to dot de Musset's t, 

But then I liked the thought of walking. 

Reader, if you go out there, try 
To set the tree a-talking. 



THE LEAF AND THE KISS. 6 1 

THE LEAF AND THE KISS. 

SHE left me for a warmer land 

And clearer skies : 
She left me for the tideless strand ; 
And leaving, let me kiss her hand 

And mouth and eyes. 

She went to meet the spring half way, 

As birds depart ; 
And all the gloom of winter lay 
Like death upon the land that day, 

And filled my heart. 

She left, but promised, like the bird 

That leaves its nest, 
To come again : and word by word 
Between her broken sighs I heard 

She loved me best. 



62 THE LEAF AND THE KISS. 

And when I wrote I begged her find 

Some spot I knew ; 
Some spot whose charms had oft combined 
To swell my breast, and call to mind 

Sweet thoughts and true, 

And there alone, to think of me 

And name my name. 
It seemed that mountain, vale, and sea 
Must hold my love in memory, 

And breathe, — // faime. 

I begged her, if she'd cure my grief, 

To send a kiss ; 
To send it on a primrose leaf: 
And then it was, to cure my grief, 

She sent me this. 



THE LEAF AND THE KISS. 63 



The lingering perfume of the South 

Was on it then ; 
The sweetness of her own dear mouth. 
But leaves once plucked must die with drouth, 

Nor bloom again. 



It withered as beneath the blast ; 

Its color fled : 
But ere the fleeting color past, 
Our love, she said must always last, 

Our love was dead. 



Full many a gift I treasure yet 

Lies hidden here 
Within my quaint old cofferet : 
On some for seal sweet lips were set, 

On some a tear. 



64 THE LEAF AND THE KISS. 

But none like this among them all 

Can move me now : 
It tells of joys that turn to gall : 
Its crumbling ashy veins recall 

A broken vow. 



■'IN* GOD WE TRUST. " 65 



To those by whose influence the Motto, "In God we 
Trust," was put upon the coins of the United States. 

IS there no shame that thus ye dare disgrace 
The fleeting winter of a poor old god ? 
That thus ye filch his venerable name 
To deck your idol and to cover o'er 
Your bestial rites with stale hypocrisy ? 
Or has the die, less brazen than yourselves, 
Altered your motto, and refused to stamp 
"The God we Trust " upon the yielding gold? 

And yet are days not distant when the thought 

Of him ye now blaspheme had made you quake 

And half forget your plotting in your fear. 

But oh, how dimly burns thy smouldering hell ! 

Poor shadow of a great divinity. 
5 



66 "IN GOD WE TRUST." 

Where is the terror of the mighty hand 
Whose infant strength could strangle Hercules, 
And shake the lofty throne of thundering Jove ? 
Didst thou not bend before thy holy sign 
The rabble hordes and yoke their fiery lust ? 
Did not thy vicar reign upon the earth 
Above the kings ? and make them fear thy wrath 
More than the wrath of all their enemies ? 
Were not thy altars laden with the deeds 
Of fairest virtue and of foulest crime, 
While men in every act, or great, or small, 
Besought thy help, thy sanction, or thy grace ? 
Yea, and though all thy ancestors were dead, 
Did they not give thee immortality ? 

Alas ! O god, how time has mocked and marred 
And wasted thee ! that what is vile should dare 
To prostitute thy name, and what is best 



"IN GOD WE TRUST." 6j 

Should blush to see the years upon thy brow, 
And like a worn jade turn thee out to die 
In the lean pastures of the Incognoscible. 

How sad a thing it is that when a god 
Grows old, as all have done and ever must, 
He cannot leave the government of earth 
In younger hands, and quietly retire 
To some secluded region, far away 
From all the strife and tumult of the world. 
Thus would the many weaknesses of age 
Go unremarked, and thus his waning days 
Be peaceful, and his memory remain 
Forever cherished in the hearts of men. 
But no; when once his prime is reached and passed, 
And each new year brings new infirmities, 
His priests begin to tremble lest the herds 
They govern in his name should lift their eyes 



68 "IN GOD WE TRUST." 

And mark the dotage of their deity. 

The fear that made them valiant in his youth 

To work his will is then gone out of them, 

And they who served him, then would make his age 

The servant of their dear ascendancy. 



At first a little fard is judged enough 
To hide time's ravage from the vulgar gaze, 
But when the faltering step, the sightless eye 
Foretell that dissolution which must end 
Their bloated reign, oh, then begins a scene 
To make the heart of honor bleed with shame. 
Haggard and wan, but tricked for public show 
In hues fantastic like a mountebank, 
The god is tortured, and when all his shape 
In palsied antics writhes, the priests cry out 
" Behold the wondrous power of the Lord ! " 



"IN GOD WE TRUST." 69 

And many who would worship but have eyes, 
Seeing these things, forget the glorious past 
To scoff, and mock their long credulity. 
And so till all have left him but the blind 
And those who lead the blind — and then he dies. 
Versailles, July, 1873. 



JO A CENTENNIAL PRAYER. 



A CENTENNIAL PRAYER, 1876. 

O THOU beneath whose valiant hand 
The conquest spreads from land to land, 
Till earth's extremest ends record 
Thy victory and own thee lord ; 
Thou in whose image gods were fair, 
To thee, O man, I raise my prayer ! 

A century of eager toil 
Has turned our wheels and tilled our soil 
Since, faithful to their proud decree, 
Our fathers made us one and free, 
And now we bid the world behold 
Our wealth increased a hundred-fold. 

May memory of the sterner days 
When virtue took the place and praise, 



A CENTENNIAL -PRAYER. 

Make clear the truth that wealth, apart, 
But swells the purse to shrink the heart ; 
And leave us like our fathers, strong 
To love the right and hate the wrong. 

While science with her dawning light 
Makes dim the guiding star of night, 
And baffled by the break of day 
Bewildered millions seek the way, 
O keep us on the course begun, 
And haste the rising of the sun ! 

Build us an altar, rock on rock, 
Whose time-defying strength shall mock 
The winds and floods of doubt, till all 
Have spent their weary force and fall : 
An altar where the true may bring 
The true heart's wealth in offering. 



J 2 A CENTENNIAL PRAYER. 

Beneath a single flag unite 

The scattered bands that waste their might 

Against the leagued hosts of vice, 

In unavailing sacrifice ; 

"And, cast in some" more human " mould, 

Let the new cycle shame the old ! " * 

*John G. Whi trier, "Centennial Hymn." 



A DRINKING SONG. 7$ 

A DRINKING SONG. 

WOULDST lie once more on the blooming shore 

And dream as in years gone by, 
When the boundless sea was fair and free 
And calm as the bright blue sky ? 
Then fill, fill up the cheering cup ; 

No friend can say me nay, 
For "auld lang syne," in the blood-red wine, 
Is the toast I drink to-day. 

The sun that shines on the purple vines 

When life is love and rhyme 
Makes rich the juice for a later use 
In the weary winter time. 

Then fill, fill up the cheering cup ; 

No friend can say me nay, 
For "thine and mine," in the blood-red wine, 
Is the health I drink to-day. 



74 A DRINKING SONG. 

A child's delight is the vision bright 

Of a future joy supreme ; 
But the visions turn as we live and learn 
To the memory of a dream. 

Then fill, fill up the cheering cup ; 

No friend can say me nay, 
For a thing divine is the blood-red wine 
That washeth care away. 

x\nd who can tell but the doleful knell 

Of illusions early fled 
May ring full soon ere the happy noon 
Of childhood's day be sped? 

Then quick, fill up the cheerful cup, 

For the sun's maturing beam 
In vain would shine on the purple vine 
If youth should cease to dream. 



LIGHT AND GLADNESS. 75 



LIGHT AND GLADNESS. 

LIGHT and gladness on the mountain, 
Light and gladness on the sea ; 

Hill and vale and shore and city- 
Feel the warmth and smile on me. 



Alpine snows send back the sunshine 
Bright as in the midst of May ; 

Send it back to where the orange 
Blossoms on the shortest day. 

From the line of silver ripples 
Outward to the cloudless sky- 
All the waters dance and glitter ; 
E'en the wind has ceased to sigh. 



7 6 LIGHT AND GLADNESS. 

Glorious sunlight ! naught in nature 
Lacks the joy thy beams impart — 

Naught but this o'erburdened bosom, 
Naught but this my broken heart. 

Ah! 'tis doubly sad to suffer 
When the very stones rejoice, 

Doubly sad to stand forever 
First of all in sorrow's choice. 

Must I bear my pain in silence ? 

Must I meekly bend me ? — No ! 
Let a curse be on their gladness, 

Cursed all that mock my woe — 

Cursed ? Nay — alas ! I'm weary — 

Blest ! for all their joy is mine. 
Love and sympathy are human, 
Let the curse be still divine. 
Castle Hill, Nice, Dec. 22. 



song. 77 



SONG. 

WHEN shall the heart of the weary be lightened ? 

When shall the spirit that pineth go free ? 
When shall I dwell with the visions that brightened 

Youth in its dawning far over the sea? 

Wait till the voice of the merry bird ringeth 
Lusty and loud with the praises of May, 

Flung from the tip of the flower that springeth 
Bright as a flame from thy mouldering clay. 

Then shall the heart of the weary be lightened ; 

Then shall the spirit that pineth go free ; 
Then shalt thou dwell with the visions that brightened 

Youth in its dawning far over the sea. 



yS MUST I CHOOSE? 



MUST I CHOOSE? 

MUST I choose from varied hues 

One sweet maid 
Ere I test all the rest ? — 

I'm afraid. 

Dost thou know, when roses blow, 

Which rose smells 
Best of all ? which to call 

Queen of dells? 

Canst thou say, when birds are gay, 

Which bird sings 
Best of all ? which to call 

Voice of springs? 



MUST I CHOOSE? 79 

Dost not doubt, when stars are out, 

Which star seems 
Most to glow? which to throw 

Softest beams ? 

Wouldst thou dare, when all are fair, 

Name one best, 
If to choose were to lose 

All the rest ? 

Fairest maid in time may fade ; 

Lest one pall, 
Let me still, if you will, 

Love them all. 



8o APRIL SUN. 



APRIL SUN. 



WHEN April's sun is beaming 
On lovely nature teeming 
With creatures fondly dreaming 

Of life and love in May, 
What wonder if the gleaming 
Of downcast eyes, beseeming 
Young passion and redeeming, 

Should steal my heart away ? 

Alas, the time for wooing 
When love's what one's pursuing 
Goes by without renewing, 

And thirty's late, I ween ; 
So let me still be doing 
While yet I've voice for cooing, 
While yet I've eyes for viewing 

The charms of sweet sixteen. 






APRIL SHOWERS. 8 1 



APRIL SHOWERS. 



LET poets praise 
What spring displays 
In rural ways 

When April showers, 
And dream their bays 
Can feel the rays 
That quicken May's 

Unfolding flowers ; 

For me a treat 
That's more replete 
With visions sweet, 

Although it's shocking, 's 
A muddy street 
With little feet 
And ankles neat 

And pretty stockings. 



82 A PRESCRIPTION. 



A PRESCRIPTION. 

A BOSOM made in beauty's mould 

To feel the common smart ? 
Nay, lady, if you've taken cold 

You've caught it from your heart. 

And should your conscience say I'm right, 

Permit me to suggest 
That it were well you straight should light 

A fire within your breast. 






NIRVANA. 83 



NIRVANA. 

THE womb quickens 
The babe cries*. 

Nirvana. 

The wing strengthens • 
The bird flies. 
Nirvana. 

The tear trickles : 
The drop dries. 
Nirvana. 

The hand labors : 
The lip lies. 
Nirvana. 



84 NIRVANA. 

The brain questions 
The heart sighs. 
Nirvana. 

The flame nutters : 

The lamp dies. 

Nirvana. 



SONNETS. 85 



TO A FAIR ADVOCATE OF WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 

THE flowers once, disdaining their estate 

As love's fair messengers and beauty's aid, 
Began to rail in honeyed tones at fate 

And vowed that rather than submit they'd fade. 
But rage, as if to thwart a plan so silly, 

Heightened each charm till all perfection grew, 
Giving a rarer pallor to the lily 

And to the rose's red a deeper hue. 
Should any wicked man in malice seem 

To goad your ire or challenge your dissent, 
Be patient nor the froward act esteem 

A fell attack upon your sweet content, 
For he perchance the skill of anger knows 
To paint the lily and adorn the rose. 



86 SONNETS. 



TO HARRIET. 

KIND Harriet, bestow, I beg of thee, 

Thine aid upon a pastoral in prose, 
For though my theme is meet for poetry, 

The Muse in silence holds her classic nose. 
But thou art " gentle, artless, wise and just," 
" With much of Christ " in thee like Lady Byron, 
And thou canst "pity weakness, sin and lust," 

And sift the truth from errors that environ. 
So tell me — if our morals may be kept 

From base attempts of genius to deprave, 
And "slanders" into dark oblivion swept 

By writing incest on a poet's grave — 
What word of infamy must laymen choose 
When Christian pastor tups his tender ewes ? 

July, 1873. 



SONNETS. 87 



O NATIONS ! 



O NATIONS ! ye that scoff at fallen France, 

Or pour your venomed pity on her wound, 
What are ye ? Do your steady steps advance 

Straight to perfection ? Has the rugged ground 
That baffles her been past and is there naught 

To learn from her distress but pride and scorn ? 
Why, Heavens ! were the space of Gallia fraught 

With all your vice, and all your weakness borne 
On her small breadth, the overburdening mass 

Would rend the earth and sink engulfed below ! 
And yet for others' sins ye cry "alas ! " 

Look to your own, ye hypocrites, and know 
Nor highest mount nor river nor deep sea 
Can bound the folly of humanity. 

Paris, March, 1872, 



SONNETS. 



SOLITUDE. 

THERE is a solitude whose depth profound 

Is greater than the silent desert knows : 
About whose state a deeper gloom is wound 

Than starless night o'er slumbering nature throws- 
Whose dreariness unfelt in hermit cell 

Assumes no outward sign or mark of dole, 
But with a secret force that naught can quell 

Relentless saps the life and gnaws the soul. 
'Tis his who wanders aimless and alone 

Amid a crowded city's busy throng, 
Mourning bright hopes by cruel Fortune strown 

Far on the winds, and sorrowing along 
Past beauty, joy and sorrow, friend and foe, 
Whelmed in a deep infinity of woe. 






SONNETS. 



THE TRUE DIVINITY. 



WHY mourn for paradise ? why weep your god ? 

Come, dry your tears and fill a cup with me : 
He has but ta'en the road the rest have trod ; 

Come, here's a health to my divinity : 
To woman, bless her ! Ere the gods were born 

Her worship warmed the tender germ of love, 
And on her altar lay the offering torn 

From selfishness ere man had looked above. 
To woman, bless her ! Though our hopes be wrecked 

On reason's cold, inhospitable shores, 
And all our dreams have waking, rudely checked, 

And naught remain of all that faith adores, 
As long as blood runs warm and beauty charms 
We still shall find a heaven in her arms. 



90 SONNETS. 



AFTER READING THE MOTTO, "IN GOD WE 
TRUST," UPON A COIN. 

'TIS said the Greeks when Troy had proved her force 

Made feigned retreat, and had a story spread 
Of wondrous virtues in a wooden horse, 

And stuffed him full of men from tail to head. 
A stratagem by which, though rather thin 

To modern people such as you or I am, 
The horse and Trojans both were taken in ; 

Which played the devil with the town of Priam. 
The men who now besiege the Constitution 

Would also like to introduce a hobby, 
But by a process some call evolution, 

The ways of things have changed in war and lobby, 
So they, like true descendants of Loyola, 
To get him in have put him on the dollar. 

Sept., 1873. 



SONNETS. 91 



TO MR. E. LITTRE. 

I LAUNCHED my bark upon a lonely sea, 

Though all I loved lay weeping on the shore, 
And set ray sail for climes unknown to me, 

And bade my hopes farewell for evermore. 
No chart had marked the unfrequented way, 

And soon the giddy needle ceased to guide, 
While lowering clouds that darkened all the day 

Burst into storm and rent the surging tide. 
Black rocks that lurked like foes along the night 

Rose menacing, but still I struggled on, 
Till, lo, afar a friendly beacon-light 

Shone o'er the waste and led me to the dawn. 
A stranger hand had fed a saving fire — 
'Twas thine, O master ! may it never tire. 
Tarts, Sept. 16, 1873. 



92 SONNETS. 



SYMPATHY. 



THEY who have known a mother's tender care 

And learned by absence all the joys of home, 
And kept a friend who every hope could share, 

And loved a maid ere love began to roam, 
And quenched ambition at the fount success, 

And clung to God as only faith can cling, 
And felt the charm of vice's hot caress, 

May lisp of love ; but he alone can sing 
Within whose bosom glows the sacred fire 

That time has lighted in love's very heart 
With passions purified, who strikes the lyre 

As one whose sympathy can bear a part 
Of each emotion feeling creatures know, 
Rejoice with every joy and weep with every woe. 



SONNETS. 93 

POOR FRANCE. 
I. 

POOR France ! alas, how all thy faults combine 
With all thy foes to make a wreck of thee, 
And "crown the edifice" of treachery. 

Ere Fate had whispered words of her design 

To ruin thee, ere thou didst cease to shine 
The envy of the world, my heart was free 
To love or loathe, but now, in sympathy, 

If I could weep, my tears should all be thine. 

Poor France ! Could I but raise my feeble voice 

Above the clamor of the herds that bray 
Disdainful pity, or that dare rejoice, 

Each wind that sweeps the ocean should convey 
A prayer for thee, dear country of my choice, 
To happier shores still dear though far away. 



94 SONNETS. 

II. 

I'D TELL of what it cost thee in disgrace, 
In precious blood, in treasure and in shame 
To cast away thy freedom and acclaim 

The Perjurer thy saviour. I would trace 

December to Sedan, and then efface 
The memory of all that I might blame 
By telling how in thy distress there came 

Noble resolves that proved thee weak, not base. 

The simple story of thy constancy 

That grows with every trial and defies 
Menace and plot, should form my artless plea. 

Yes, and should teach Columbia to despise 
The fawning hypocrites who bend the knee 
And play the pander to thy enemies. 

Paris, Oct. 6, 1873. 



SONNETS. 95 



HOW to be envied is the lot of those 
Whose placid minds do ever calmly soar 
Above the troubled world ; who can ignore 

The anguish of the present in its throes, 

To follow still where idle fancy goes; 
Or, undisturbed, with rapt attent explore 
The labyrinth of past, or con the lore 

That nature's depths from transient eye enclose. 

Such is not mine, alas ! My cherished theme 

Has been begun and left a thousand times, 
And noisy rumors make my thoughts to seem 

Like timid birds that seldom-ceasing chimes 
Frighten from where they still return to teem 
On some cathedral spire that into heaven climbs. 



96 SONNETS. 

"HONNEUR ET PATRIE." 
I. 

BEFORE the Tuileries, 'neath the Marshals' Hall 
From which in line against the western skies 
The Obelisk and Arc of Triumph rise, 

I stood and mused, while off the calcined wall 

Fell the huge blocks and scattered in their fall 
The dust of demolition. Where mine eyes 
Had seen the chiefs portrayed in warlike guise 

Was blacked and crumbling stone, and that was all. 

Not all, for just within, on either side, 

Where each uplifted eye must needs behold 
Remained a narrow space that had defied 

The winter and the flame, and as of old, 
Bore, in the gilded letters of its pride, 

" Honneur et Patrie," on a ground of gold. 



SONNETS. 97 

II. 

" Honneur et Patrie ! " And the dazzling glare 
That shone from off the motto in the gloom 
Was like a word of cheer from out the tomb, 
Was like a ray of hope in black despair. 

The valiant memories assembled there 
Were as the shades of heroes who resume 
Their earthly walks, and when disasters loom 

Warn of the threatened woes they still must share. 

"Honneur et Patrie ! " 'Twas the soldier's creed. 
But while I gazed my thoughts returning met 
The Marshal President, content to lead 

Designing knaves, and him whose traitor debt 
Is still to pay; and where I late could read 
Was nothing but the gloom — the sun had set. 

Paris, Oct. 27, 1873. (During the trial of Marshal Bazaine.) 
7 



98 SONNETS. 



WHEN love was only love a little maid 

Taught me to love her, and her watch in plight 
She let me wear, while mine from morn till night 

Against her budding breast was gently laid. 

And there it heard her heart, and there it stayed 
Till it had learned by listening in delight 
A pleasant tale ; which throb for throb aright 

It tells forever o'er as then betrayed. 

Just half my life ago ! and on the sea 

And in a hundred lands, since we did part, 
The storm has burst and sun has shone on me ; 

But ne'er in heedless joy nor dolor's smart 
Have I forgot the whispering melody 
That tells the story of the virgin heart. 



SONNETS. 99 

THE "VIRGINIUS AFFAIR." 

NOW forth, Columbia, draw thy valiant sword ! 
Now on, ye brave, and let your loud alarms 
Strike dumb dispute. Now on ! To arms ! To arms ! 

'Tis booty calls, and hath it e'er implored 

Freemen in vain ? And shall a greedy horde 
Of Spanish placemen revel in the charms 
Of Cuban spoil, while fears of petty harms 

Keep from our own a merited reward ? 

Forbid it, Heaven ! No ! discussion now 

Were blackest treason, and the wretch who'd bore 
With project of reform, or stir the slough 

That holds our leaders' filth, should suffer sore. 
To arms ! and tress the laurel for your brow ; 
E'en thieves are heroes when baptized in war ! 
Paris, Nov. 20, 1873. 



IOO SONNETS. 

TOAST TO THE NEW YEAR. 

FILL full : a bumper to the new-born year ! 
The heir of ages, may it ever be 
A shining honor to its ancestry, 

And peace unbroken bless its bright career. 

Its heritage, the fruit of toil severe 

In lands unnumbered and on every sea, 
Is rich confusion, may sweet harmony 

Pervade the whole, and all its joys appear. 

While just devotion, honoring the shrine 

That ancient worth and virtues still adorn, 
Marks the descendant of a noble line, 

May blighting bigotry relentless torn 
Forth by the root where'er it dares to twine 
Proclaim the parent of the years unborn. 
Dec, 1873. 



SONNETS. IOI 



INTRODUCTION TO A POEM. 

WHEN the sad wind, from wandering round the sea 
Or through the regions of eternal snow, 
Tells to the harp its endless tale of woe, 

The chords are moved responsive and set free 

A vague and shadowy sound of sympathy. 

Not in skilled measure does their grief o'erflow, 
But artless plaints that dreary-long and low 

Like waves of sorrow die upon the lea. — 

Such my poor song ; a wind of doleful sighs 

That came distinct above the murmuring 
Of nature's millions, born to agonize, 

Swept o'er my heart. O ye, who've heard this thing 
And felt the tears of pity in your eyes, 
Attend my lay: in pity's name I sing. 



102 SONNETS. 



FULL often, when my way is long and lies 

Through busy streets in which the dazzling light 
Gleams from a thousand lamps until my sight 

Is all bedimmed, I raise my weary eyes 

Above and rest them on the tranquil skies : 

Rest them from little flames that flare and smite 
By gazing where the myriad suns of night 

Shine with a glow that calms and beautifies. 

Thus when the sounds of pain and strife and hate 

Assail mine ears and grieve and torture me, 
Leaving me, sick of life, to curse at fate, 

I raise my thoughts to regions that are free 
From earthly cares, and there I contemplate 
The silent working of Immensity. 



SONNETS. 



103 



TO MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR. 

MY little neighbor, wilt thou leave me here 
To wait forever? wilt thou ne'er reope 
Thy pleasant window more ? and must the hope 

Born of thy soft eyes perish, thou so near ? 

Why dost thou shun me ? Have they made thee fear 
Their cruel chiding, they who watch o'er thee? 
Then ope and leave me, sweet, that I may see 

Thy pretty chamber,— even that is dear. 

Thy couch has curtains, which the vine and flower 

In such entwined confusion overspread, 
That in their fall they seem to form a bower 

About the spot where lies thy maiden head. 
Dear girl, I'd love thee were thy only dower 
One little bud from off so fair a bed. 



104 SONNETS. 

OVER HEAD AND EARS. 

LADY, when thou dost linger by the sea, 
While not a ripple whispers to the shore, 
And all is still, as if the winds no more 

Could break its slumber, hath it charms for thee ? 

Or when its lashed and foaming waters flee 
The tempest's wrath, and every sail it bore 
Is rent and lost, and midst the horrid roar 

Men cry unheard, canst weep in sympathy ? 

Then hear my grief: — unfathomed as the main, 

A sea of passion rolls within my breast, 
And long beneath its cruel waves have lain 

Wrecked hopes of youth ; while now the last, the best 
Is struggling all in vain ; — alas ! in vain, 

Though one kind word could set the storm at rest. 






SONNETS. 105 

'DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE LANGUAGE 
OF FLOWERS?" 

YEA, Love, I've learned the hidden sense they bear 
And hold it greatest of all scholarships, 
For not a flower that the bright bee sips 

But tells of thy sweet self, and calls thee fair. 

Some mind me of soft eyes, and azure rare, 
And some of pearl-white teeth in balmy lips, 
Of matchless hands, of rosy finger-tips, 

Or wavy lustre of thy golden hair. 

And others, whispering of the charms that gleam 
From out the night and turn my blood to fire, 
Bring back the vision of a joy supreme ; 

But ever as I gaze some envious brier 
Points to the fatal shadow in the dream 
That keeps me ever from my soul's desire. 



106 SONNETS. 

FALSE SUSPICION. 

TO . 

AND so it seemed my vows were meant 
But as a puling poet's song, 
Whose one reply to such a wrong 

Would be a moonlight lone lament ? 

No, by my soul ! If I've misspent 
An idle hour — alas, too long — 
In idler rhymes, when I was young 

The trade I learnt took other bent. 

'Tis true that ere I deemed it sold 

I drank thy beauty as a wine, 
But if thy choice have more than gold 

To give for this new love of thine, 
I'll prove thee what I once foretold — 
The heart to bleed shall not be mine. 



SONNETS. 107 

"SOUVENIR DU Ier MARS, 1815." * 

(RETURN FROM ELBA.) 
I. 

'TWAS here the landing? here they pitched the tent 
Till midnight, when the fatal march began 
That yet once more, despite the nations' ban, 

Shook earth a hundred days ? and such event 

Marked like a petty road-side accident ! — 
Not thus, not thus, O giant Corsican, 
Uprose the shaft in that ambitious plan 

Which I had formed for such a monument. 

Not thus, but glittering with all the gold 

Thy glory cost the Gaul, and thy disgrace ; 
W T hile mounting toward thine image, as of old, 

The burnished mass was fashioned to enchase 
A million skulls — thy legend briefly told ; 

And all the sea was blood about the base. 
Golfe JOUAN (near Cannes, France), 1874. 

* Composed before a small column bearing this inscription which 
stands by the road near the spot where Napoleon landed. 



io8 SONNETS. 



II. 



O Tyrant, we are small as thou art great, 
But mid the rabble thou didst so despise 
Be some that look the gods between the eyes 

And fear not. Yea, be some that dare to rate 

Their halo but a mask : and when in state 
I raised thy cursed genius to the skies, 
'Twas there to strip thee of thine old disguise 

And join to endless fame eternal hate. 

But all was done that I had hoped to do, 

By him who reigned thine heir and blood-in-law, 
Late Prussia's high Purveyor to the Maw, 

When, with himself and mighty retinue, 

He left the lion's skin beneath her paw, 
And made Sedan a bastard Waterloo. 






SONNETS. 109 



IN THE FOREST OF COMPIEGNE. 

DARK as the mystic wood of Domremy 
Wherein compassion's voice grew audible 
Are these deep shades, and as I wander, still 

I think of thee, brave Joan, and envy thee : 

For thou, ere taken while too loath to flee, 
Before yon city's gate, didst all fulfil; 
And neither Rouen's fire nor priestly skill 

Could stay the working of the "sorcery." 

And I too hear the voices manifold ; 

Till night and day with all my heart I yearn 
To work their will, ere heart and all be cold ; 

But sorrow's legions yet neglect or spurn 
The faith that now could lead them, while the old 
Is powerless to save — or e'en to burn. 



HO SONNETS. 



To President Grant, on reading the cable dispatch 
concerning his Secretary of War; Paris, March 
3, 1876. 

ANOTHER down ? Ye gods ! and can it be 
That in your vast, inexplicable ire 
Little and great must tumble till the mire 

Cover them all ? O strange fatality ! 

But courage, Grant ! Although these things we see 
Are made to rend the bosom and inspire 
Sorrow in stones, take heart, for evils dire 

Assail the purest when the gods decree. 

Bacchus, the boss of some old whiskey ring, 
Worked such a spell on Midas, we are told, 
And everything he touched was turned to gold ; 

But as the golden age when he was king 

Has changed to iron, if all that you uphold 
Should turn to steel, 'twere not astonishing. 



SONNETS. Ill 

EARLY SPRING. 

TO . 

HOW sweet to breathe these perfumes and to share 
The calm rejoicing and the gentle mirth, 
While nature, radiant from the bonds of birth, 

Glows in her vernal ardor and is fair. 

While yet no flower falls to waken care, 

Nor aught foretells the weary winter's dearth, 
But soft voluptuous languor fills the earth, 

And love is latent in the very air. 

'Tis early spring, dear girl, within thy heart, 

And thou wouldst ever idly dream away 
The precious hours that so soon depart ; 

But I, alas, beneath the burning ray 
Of summer's sun, now count with bitter smart 
The days that rest : — and wilt thou still delay? 



112 SONNETS. 

UPON THE PROPOSITION OF AMNESTY FOR 
THE FRENCH COMMUNISTS. 

JUSTICE, twin-born sister of bright Truth, 
I too would raise a voice for amnesty ; 

But not like theirs, a ready-granted plea 
For men misled, whose miserable youth 

Was left to God's protection, and the tooth 
Of famished envy ; who could hope to see 
The dawning of the day that is to be 

But in red flame. No, these have earned thy ruth. 

1 plead for such as having wine and meat 

And knowledge, thrust these out, and let them fall 
A prey to demagogues ; for such as greet 

That man their saviour who can best enthrall ; 
For chieftains dreadful only in the street ; 

And all the band ecclesiastical. 
Paris, March, 1876. 



SONNETS. 113 

AFTER DINNER. 

SWEET scents are floating on the wave : 
Such perfume as the tropic shore 
Sends back the sea, when day is o'er, 

Upon the cooling breeze it gave. 

I hear the moonlit waters lave 

The vessel's side, a distant oar 

Dip lazily ; and more and more 
Remote, the singing of a slave. 

Blest vision of the summer seas ! 

'Twas thus in youth when years ago 
I sailed amid the Caribbees. 

And shall I give my life to woe 
While yet I find such thoughts as these 
In one small glass of Curacoa? 



114 SONNETS. 

ANOTHER TERM. 

I DREAMT I saw St. Peter at the gate 
(The mind is given to wandering at night), 
And clouds of angels thinly clad in white 

Were pushing to get in, for it was late. 

The Porter checked their names upon his slate, 
And all went well, till, lifting up his light, 
He looked at one suspiciously, despite 

His muffler and assurance, and cried, " Wait ! " 

He waited, but when all were in he said, 

" Now, look here, Peter, listen — I affirm 
That more than twenty thousand years have fled 

" Since I first asked ; now, isn't there a germ 
Of pity in you, man ? " P. shook his head — 
" Go back to hell and serve another term ! " 
Paris, April 8, 1876, 



SONNETS. 115 



SAD is the flower, O Sun, that decks the way 
Too soon ; while yet the wind of winter blows, 
And blissful are the blossoms that unclose 

Their tender petals to the warmth of May. 

Sad is the soul, O Truth, that sees thy ray 

Too soon ; and blest, ah, doubly blest are those 
Who linger dreaming till their sweet repose 

Is broken by the warmer beam of day. 

Now joyous nature holds the vernal rite 

And worships thee beneath the cloudless sky, 
O Sun, from whom is life and all delight : 

Yet one that loves thy bounty breathes a sigh: — 
Ah, wherefore whisper, seeing all so bright, 
O Truth, that e'en by this the Sun shall die? 
April, 1876. 



Il6 SONNETS. 

ROUGE ET NOIR. 
{In the ga?'den at Monte- Carlo, Monaco.) 

ALL gone at last ; all, all ! By god, an ace ! 

Three ten-spots and an ace, to thirty-two ! 

And at the limit ! — All ! and not a sou 
To pay for a dispatch. — Ah, damn the place ! 

And yet how beautiful ! with what a grace 

Those tranquil palms stand out against the blue 
Of sea and sky, and that soft, dreamy hue 

The moonlight makes along the mountains' base. 

They've chosen well ! — an Eden to conceal 

The serpent. — Bah ! 'twere nothing did we mar 
Only our fortunes : it's the loss of zeal, 

The drought that leaves the heart a shrivelled scar 
As empty as this purse — what's that I feel? — 
By Tove, a louts ! and the rhvme is noir ! 



SONNETS. 117 

" Before, a joy proposed ; behind, a dream:" 

Shakspeare, Sonnet 129. 

OH, the strong, strange emotion, bitter-sweet, 
That fills my weary bosom as I ride 
Along these lanes, and note on every side 

The woods and fields that knew my childish feet. 

Men stare at me, but all the ripening wheat 
Bows and is glad ; the brook by which I sighed 
Told an old tale and laughed ; and, dignified, 

My friends the trees stretch out their arms to greet. 

Ah, yes, 'twas there while resting from my play 

I dreamt of future years, that used to seem 
So full of promise and so far away. 

Poor child ! they come and go, but none redeem 
The worthless pledge ; they pass, and each new day 
But dims the memory of that fond dream. 
Wallingford, Delaware Co., Pa., July, 1875. 



Ii8 SONNETS. 

AUGUST 15th, 1875. 
I. 
I NE'ER had seen the moonlit summer night 
More beautiful ; above, the stars were drowned 
In brightness, and below upon the ground 
A distant haze blent all in one delight. 

Along the stream a line of denser white 
Lay heavily ; and nearer, stretched around, 
The wood stood still and slept without a sound ; 

While Time's swift wing beat on in silent flight. 

No change; alas, no change, but all as fair 
And tranquil as the placid sleep of faith, 
And in my poor worn heart — despair, despair ! 

No change, — and all my hope was changed to death 
For I had heard upon the midnight air 

Life's saddest sound, — a mother's dying breath. 



SONNETS. 119 



II. 

GONE, gone ! The gentle heart that unsubdued 
Could cheer us in the gloom of death's delay- 
Would throb no more : the hand that yesterday 

Still answered' mine ; the lids so often dewed 

With tears by me ; the lips that e'er renewed 

Forgiveness — gone ! Gone the last chance to pay 
Love with fair deeds : and left to comfort me — 

The memory of my own ingratitude. 

O misery ! — ah, could I but deceive 

My sorrow with a little hope; but be 
Like them that shut their eyelids and believe. 

Relentless Truth, look what I bear for thee ! — 
They talk of grief that never learned to grieve ; 
And yet they say we doubt from vanity ! 



120 SONNETS. 

A BROKEN PROMISE. 

THIS coming death-day soon will make the third, 
Mother, and all my grief be more by three ; 
But you've forgot the promise given me : 

Ah, mother, mother, mother, but one word ! 

Is it my fault ? — I know their prating stirred 

My anger, but I always tried to be 

Fair ; and I've watched so long ! why can't I see? 
I've listened, but my tears are all I've heard. 

And if my doubts be true ? And if the flame 

Died with the light when that last kiss grew cold ? 
O miserable charlatans that came 

Between us for a little sum of gold, 
Where are you now ? — A faith ? Ah, yes, — the same ; 
Divides our hearts and fortunes like the old. 



SONNETS. 121 

To " Sitting Bull," on receiving the news of his victory 
over U. S. troops. 

WELL done, Dakotah ! Though good men and brave 
Be fallen, and beneath the wind and sun 
Wait for a grave, well done ! I say ; well done ! 

Their blood be not on thee, but them that drave 

Thy tribe to war ; not thee, for thou canst lave 
Thy red hands clean in wrong. Our greed alone 
Is guilty ; and the vengeful balls that won, 

Behind the true heart, heedless, sought the knave. 

Yea, chief, strike hard ! Though fate hath doomed 
thy race, 
And cruel progress hails the stern decree, 
Strike hard ! for man's defence is good to see. 

Yea, turn, and take the death- wound in the face, 
That on your tomb a friendly hand may trace — 

They died in arms against their destiny. 

Eaux-Bonnes, Basses Pyrenees, Sept. 9, 1876. 



122 SONNETS. 



ACROSTIC TO 



WHILE yet I knew thee not, when some fair thought 
Importuned me to give its beauty birth, 
Like one who might have been, I mourned the dearth 

That time misspent in wayward youth had wrought. 

Then said I to myself, — "And hadst thou sought 
However much to mend thy meagre worth, 
O fool ! thou wouldst have lived and passed from 
earth 

Unknown, and all thy toil had been for nought." 

But since I saw thy face, and felt the thrill 

Each word from those sweet lips hath power to raise, 
My keen remorse is such as nought can still. 

Irrevocable curse of wasted days ! — 
Now had I but a tithe of Petrarch's skill, 

E'en Laura's fame should fade before thy praise. 



SONNETS. 123 

TO -. 

NAY, judge me not, nor this poor heart of mine, 
As thou art wont to do when others kneel, 
For, all unworthy as I am, I feel 

What thou canst never know, nor words define. 

Bigot am I in love, and though the shrine 
I worship at awakens all men's zeal, 
I hold they lack the grace that can reveal 

The mystery which maketh love divine. 

Then pardon me if earnestness too deep 

To brook control bring words that seem severe — 
Alas, and can it be I've made thee weep? 

Nay, pity me ! the storm is over, dear, 
And all the passions that offended sleep, 

For thou hast quelled them with a single tear. 



124 SONNETS. 

LA FORNARINA. 

"WHO was la Fornarina?" Raphael 

Knew more of that than I can teach thee, dear, 
For stories differ ; but there's one thing clear — 

Whoe'er she was, he must have loved her well. 

A Roman girl, low-born, if what they tell 
Be true ; a beauty sure ; but less severe 
Than one would judge, if her own traits appear 

In that calm face on which he loved to dwell. 

At times, when art was powerless to wean 
The lover from his love till eventide, 
They placed her on the scaffold by his side. 

He took from passion all that youth could glean 

And then he died. — "And how?" — ah — well — he 
died — 
As I would die wert thou my Fornarine. 



SONNETS. 125 

PEACE. 

CHEER ! 

Why 
Sigh? 
Hear, 

Dear ; 
Dry 

Thy 
Tear. 

Life's 
So 

Short, 

Strife's 
No 
Sport. 



26 SONNETS. 



MY LADY'S HAIR. 

BLONDE are the locks I love ; in hue 
Like summer wheat toward harvest day 
When round the fields the warm winds play 

And make them wave as waters do. 

Blonde are my lady's own, wherethrough 
Her features, worth Petrarca's lay, 
Take tinge of gold, that melts away 

To leave the perfect rose anew. 

No man resists when charms so bright 

Decoy, beneath so sweet a snare ; 
None. If they tell the tale aright, 

The maid she has to tend her hair 
For one whole hour every night 

Combs out the hearts entangled there. 



SONNETS. 127 

MY LADY'S MOLE. 

MY lady has below her chin, 

Just where the collar shows her neck, 
A wicked little brownish speck 

No bigger than a pin. 

It isn't patched upon the skin 

Like those with which some beauties deck 

A pretty face, but for my wreck 
The Devil wove it in. 

'Twould give a saint an appetite — 

That space between her collar's roll — 
It looks so white. 

If I were sure I have a soul 
I'd offer it for one good bite 
Beneath that mole. 



128 SONNETS. 



MY LADY'S NOSE. 

I'LL do what poet ne'er did yet, 
As far as I know, — that's compose 
A sonnet to my lady's nose : — 

'Tis somewhat " Marie Antoinette," 

Commanding, arched, and proudly set, 
But not too long ; and though she knows 
What good wine is, the driven snow's 

Not nearly so immaculate. 

If by mishap we disagree 

'Tis sometimes here my lady shows it. 
And then 'twould do you good to see 

The lofty way in which she throws it : 
But, ah, 'tis always dear to me, 

And pretty — even when she blows it. 



SONNETS. 129 

MY LADY'S EAR. 

MY lady has the sweetest ear ! — 
A perfect little rosy shell ! — 
In which the tales that lovers tell, 

That lovers tell, and ladies fear, 

But never quite refuse to hear, 

Have left an echo, there to dwell 

And make the blush perpetual ; 
(I wonder if my meaning's clear?) 

If she were only fond of verse 

I'd fill the little shell with rhyme ; 
But that would be a waste, or worse ; 

For when I think I'm most sublime 
She yawns, which makes me want to curse, 
And knocks me wholly out of time. 



130 SONNETS. 



MY LADY'S FEET. 

OF all the pretty little feet 

Since those that slipped when Adam fell 
There's not a pair that can excel 

My lady's; really it's a treat 

To see her cross a muddy street, 

Her dainty bottines fit so well ; 

And then her ankle ! — shall I tell? 
But no, we'll not be indiscreet. 

One day when too much exercise 

Had caused those little shoes to smart her, 
She deigned to let me loose the ties ! — 

St. Crispin, cobbler, saint and martyr, 
Would risk his all in paradise 
If once he got so near her garter. 



SONNETS. 



I'D GATHERED in my lady's bonnet 
Just charms enough to make a salad, 
And by the rule poetical had 

Mixed them in a little sonnet. 

Not all were there, depend upon it, 
For every feature's claim is valid, 
And citing all would fill a ballad ; 

Which, to my taste, had overdone it. 

But woman, bless her, ne'er declines 

That dish, and seems to think you wrong her, 
When once she tastes, unless she dines ; 

My lady wanted more and stronger : — 
" That's nice," she said, " but— fourteen lines !— 
Why don't you make your sonnets longer? " 



I3 2 SONNETS. 



MY LADY'S MOUTH. 

HOW shall I praise my lady's mouth, 
Whose beauty makes description vain ?- 
Like perfume wafted o'er the main 

To seamen toiling toward the south 

Her warm breath is ; and like the drouth 
Of parched throats that drink for rain 
The salt sea water, is the pain 

Her moist, sweet lip engendereth. 

And that dear voice ! its notes might be' 

As wine to what is worse than this — 
My worn heart's thirst for sympathy. 

And none could find the cure amiss ; 
For any little word, to me, 

Were dearer than the fondest kiss. 



SONNETS. 133 

LOVE-LONGING. 

(See D. G. Rossetti's beautiful sonnet, " Love-Sweetness.") 
NOT that the fragrant shadow of her hair 

Is on thy face, nor that her hands are wed 

A tender lily wreath about thy head, 
I'm envious ; nor that her features wear 

The love her soft remembering sighs declare : 
Not that her bosom's white is turned to red 
Beneath thy lips which on her own had fed ; — 

Not therefore ; no, my lady too is fair. 

But because thou hast known that sweeter thing 

For want of which my soul finds nothing sweet — 
A listener to the song that it would sing. 

Because thy spirit, when its pinions beat 
The lonesome air " in cloud-girt wayfaring," 

Feels "breath of kindred plumes against its feet." 



134 SONNETS. 



WHILE yet a child, before the joys of spring 
Had come and gone till all were known to me, 
I set an orchard out with many a tree 

Of goodly stock for plenteous harvesting. 

And though the sweet birds came to light and sing, 
It seemed the far-off day would never be ; 
And, heedless of their note, impatiently 

I waited for the time of fruit-bearing. 

The time has come : the trees are now full-grown ; 

And o'er my head their branches interlaced 
Bear fruits of varied flavor, all my own. 

But, nearly in my reach, I let them waste : 
While, listening to the bees' unwearied drone, 
I sit and muse, and hardly care to taste. 



SONNETS. 135 



AMBITION. 



HOW long ago it is since hope was mine : 
How long ago since first it seemed to me 
As if, at most, a few short years would see 

The full accomplishment of my design. 

Alas, 'twas ere that loveliest of the nine 

Fair fickle daughters of Mnemosyne 

Had made a mess of my virginity, 
And cast me off, and left me to repine. 

In those old times I dreamt my song must sway 

The nations : — now, my life would not seem vain 
If later (shaving, as I was to-day) 

Some lathered lover of old rhyme should deign 
To read my torn leaf twice ere cast away, 
And with his razor dull forget the pain. 



12,6 SONNETS. 

BYRON. 

O SINGER of the summit and the sea, 
O lover of the tempest, that divined 
The language of the lightning and the wind, 

Byron ! the very air is full of thee. 

Thy song was of the mountains and the free 
Far-rolling ocean, where thine ears could find 
Relief from rattle of the chains that bind 

The tortured spirit of humanity. 

A forest is thy poem, where my soul 

Roams on through tropic luxury to climb 
The snow-clad glorious heights that top the whole. 

But there be those that root amid the slime 
For noxious weeds ; and when they find, extol 

The little kitchen-gardeners of rhyme. 
In view of the Villa Diodati, near Geneva. 



SONNETS. 137 

CERVANTES. 

THOU wast a poet after my own heart, 

Cervantes. — When all Europe's hopes and fears 
Followed Don Juan, yet a boy in years 

Lepanto saw thee play the hero's part. 

And when thy fortune led thee to this mart 
Of Islam's foes, although a slave, the tears 
Of twenty thousand captives in Algiers 

Fell fewer for thy courage and thine art. 

Ennobled by the hand that held the sword 

With all the soldier's virtues, frank and free, 
Thy pen spoke plain to rabble, priest and lord ; 

Nor was the recompense refused to thee ; 
For parasite and pander swelled the horde 

That mocked thy wounds, thine age and poverty. 
Algiers. 



138 SONNETS. 



L'ORDRE MORAL. 

"The Illustrious Marshal MacMahon, " "Loyal 
Soldier," etc., etc. 

(See the Bonapartist, Orleanist, or Legitimist, alias " Conservative," 
newspapers of the day.) 

O MEN of "moral order, " saviors, ye 
That swell your praises like an empty bag, 
Or breeches pocket that conserves a flag, 

Who is this valiant pink of loyalty ? 

O men of " moral order, " is it he, 

Your baffled leaders took to help them gag 

The mouth of France? of whom it was their brag 

He'd play her false to serve your monarchy ? 

O patriots of fame immaculate, 

Is't he that when the nation asked for breath, 
But when the Empire's cause grew desperate, 



SONNETS. 139 

Risked all for Caesar's crown? (this Caesar saith,)* 
And threw against the loaded dice of fate 

When every scullion knew the choice was death ? 

Paris, Feb. 15, 1876. 

*See Louis Napoleon's letter to Sir John Burgoyne, after Sedan. 



140 SONNETS. 

THE MARSHAL'S MANIFESTO. 

(Free translation.) 

FRENCHMEN ! The glorious Marshal-President, 
Duke of Magenta, Reichshoffen, Sedan, 
Et metres lieux, now bids you straightway scan 

This manifesto and admonishment : — 

Sacree canaille ! The deputies you sent 

A year ago were nearly every man 

Both unpapistic and republican, 
An insult, damn it, to my government. 

Now hear ! I've sent them back, and lest you grope 

In ignorance of what your chiefs about, 
I've chosen men (conjointly with the pope) 

Imperio-royalist beyond a doubt. 
If they're elected, as I truly hope, 

All will be well ; but if they're not, look out ! 

Sept., 1877. 



SONNETS. 141 

THE MARSHAL'S RUBICON. 

THIS is indeed a very funny man. 

Because a gang of sharpers, priests and fools 
That count on him to found three different rules 

Have dubbed the numskull, " Hero of Sedan," 

Our hen-pecked king-maker has changed his plan ; 
And heedless of the world that ridicules, 
He now would turn his masters into tools 

To bridge a little private Rubicon. 

A pretty thing in Caesars, by my soul ! — 

Was it for this the nation purged her heart 
Of that old longing for a chiefs control ? 

Was it, her back still aching with the smart, 
To take the lash from an inglorious drole ? 

The Bastard's name at least was Bonaparte. 
Sept., 1877. 



142 SONNETS. 

ANOTHER "OFFENCE." 

ANOTHER villanous " offence ! "— 

A worthy holder of the crayon, 

With laudable desire to play on 
A cord that's now no longer tense, 

Portrayed with due magnificence 
Our glorious Marechal MacMahon 
Upon the steed he rode the day on 

Which he was hit by Providence. * 

" My faith, a knowing eye ; yes, very, — 

The horse," says one whose Journal ranks 
Among the " reds ; " a commentary 

*This wound in the hip was so opportune that it forced the 
Marshal to quit his saddle just at the moment when things grew 
desperate, and thus relieved him from the disagreeable duty of sign- 
ing the Capitulation of Sedan. 



SONNETS. 143 

Whose Machiavelian malice, thanks 
To *Badinguet's Judiciary, 

Has cost the wretch five hundred francs. 

* Nickname of Napoleon III. 



144 SONNETS 

MACMAHON SOLILOQUIZES. 

"A PRETTY mess ! — They promised me last May 
If I'd dissolve they'd run the thing in style, 
And, damn it, now they've made me risk my pile, 
I find the very rogues I sent away. 

A coup tfetat would suit 'em, would it, eh? 

Of course ; and how about the rank and file ? 

There's old Dufaure,* I might try him a while, 
But, Lord ! just think what Madam M. would say ! 

What's to be done? — a.second dissolution ? 
Why, all my foxy friend de Broglie's art 
Can't make the Senate sanction this solution : 

And then the deputies before they start 
Must vote the budget — Hang their Constitution ! 

I would to heaven I were Bonaparte." 

Paris, Nov. 21, 1877. 

* A very moderate republican who had already been the Marshal'* 
prime-minister. 



SONNETS. 145 

THE MARSHAL'S SECOND CAPITULATION. 

(After the Elections.) 
" THIS quarter of an hour, Rabelais,* 's thine. 
That insubordinate rascallion Fate, 
The Communist ! has said, ' Capitulate,' 
And this time I myself shall have to sign. 

Just think, the very Orleanists decline 

To see me through ! the very men whose prate 
About devotion brought me to the strait 

I'm in. And now it's yield or else resign. 

My motto's ' Here I am, and here I stay ; ' 

But what a pity for a son of Mars 
To smear his valiant nose in such a way. 

Sedan was nothing to it ; this is farce, 

And that was tragedy where one could play 

At getting badly wounded in the hip." 
Paris, Dec. 14, 1877. 



* " Rabelais's quarter of an hour " is the time of reckoning. 



10 



146 SONNETS. 

THE MARSHAL'S "MINISTRY OF AFFAIRS." 

(Impromptu upon hearing of the attempted coup cTetai.) 

AH, traitor, that was what you called "Affairs," 
Was it ? — Affairs in which the rue Montmartre 
Has seen this Rochebouet, the hound, take part 

Before, with grape and canister for wares. 

Ah, " Loyal Soldier." — So my pink " that shares 
The world's esteem," my "Bayard " tried to start 
Un petit commerce a la Bonaparte ? — 

I knew you, hypocrite, with all your airs. 

You missed it, did you? Damn you, you forgot 

That which the meanest soldier never can 
Forget ; you thought that seven years could blot 



SONNETS. 147 

Metz and Bazaine, MacMahon and Sedan. 
Go hang, you scoundrel ! — Troops for such a plot ? 

Marshals and generals, yes— but not a man. 
Paris, Dec. 22, 1877. 



The Cabinet of General Rochebouet, " without political bias," 
was to devote itself to affairs and conciliation. As colonel of artil- 
lery during the coup d'etat of 185 1, the general had qualified 
himself for this mission by the massacres which took place in the 
neighborhood of the rue Montmartre. 



148 SONNETS. 

FRENCH FACTIONS IN 1877. 
I. 

IMPERIALISTS. 

FIRST of the several factions on the list 
Of those that seek to rule or ruin Gaul 
(The only one with any chance at all), 

I place the party called imperialist. 

An eagle, that the physiognomist 

Named vulture, once was emblematical 
Of this odd lot ; but since Napoleon's fall, 

A famished crow with carrion in his fist. 

Their hope was, first to shake the nation's trust 
In freedom by their schemes, and then to see 
The people take a " savior " in disgust. 

But this has failed ; and now they all agree 
That friend MacMahon should use force, and miu 
Or else they'll doubt his famous loyalty. 



SONNETS. 149 



II. 

ORLEANISTS. 

NEXT come the Dukes and gentlemen of note 
Who own allegiance to the county Paris ; 
Great friends of liberty, whose constant care is 

Never to let you know it by a vote. 

Too weak to take the nation by the throat 

Themselves (it's not that principles embarrass), 
Their remedy if driven to despair is 

To swallow Caesar as an antidote. 

Believe it on this wise and save your soul : 

Six days He labored, and it came to pass 
That on the seventh, viewing o'er the whole, 

He started with a— " Bless me, what an ass ! 
Who's to keep all this rabble in control ? " 

And next day made He the " directing class." 



150 SONNETS. 

Ill: 

LEGITIMISTS. 

THIRD, and the least unworthy of the three, 

We have the partisans of Henri Cinq ; 

Marquis and dowagers made fit by rank 
To rule the nation o'er a cup of tea. 

Their honor, all Quixotic though it be, 

Rings sound, as rang the answer firm and frank 
When d' Orleans begged their king on bended shank 

To smut the banner of the fleurs de lys. 

But some whose sires bore cross beyond the sea 

Envy the knights imperial their deeds 
And long to turn chevaliers d* Industrie. 

For them Amphitryon's the one that feeds 
And Capet's scruple want of energy: — 

" Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds." 



SONNETS. 151 

IV. 

CLERICALS. 

BACK in the dark behind the rest of these, 
But leagued against the nation with them all, 
The never-tiring party clerical 

Works for the cause of Christ upon its knees. 

It has for shield against its enemies 

Night, and a sword that's dipped in zealot's gall ; 

For only motto this one word, " enthrall ; " 
For crest the crown of Pious with the Keys. 

Its members priests or undeveloped spawn 

Of priests, whose bloated, careless lips have blessed 
Each tyrant that would deign to let them fawn. 

Who fat their lecherous buttocks on the best 
Of every land, and rule by right of brawn 

Wherever woman loves to be confessed. 
Paris, Dec, 1877. 



152 SONNETS. 

THE SACRED HEART. 

IN Paris on the hill they call Montmartre 
They're putting up, by way of expiation 
For all the sins of this most sinning nation, 

A vast cathedral to the Sacred Heart : 

That is, they want to, but it seems the start 
Is hindered by an ancient excavation, 
Wherein before beginning their foundation 

Our friends have seen their dwindling funds depart. 

Now Pious swears indulgences from Rome 

Shall build the thing, or by his crown of glory 
He'll starve the Devil out of house and home ; 

And, estimating by the lower story, 
It's reckoned that before they reach the dome 
There'll not a soul be left in purgatory. 
Paris, Nov., 1877. 



SONNETS. 153 

SISTER SIMPLICE. 

THROUGH Arden wood they came, each little pair 
Prattling about the fun they'd had that day, 
And toddling back reluctant from their play 

To meet the vesper chimes that sought them there. 

And at their head a novice young and fair, 
Simplice, the teacher, meekly led the way ; 
When sudden, bounding toward the helpless prey, 

A dog came on, all foam, with eyes aglare. 

"Run, run," she screamed; then knelt with arms 
stretched wide 
And caught the beast, and struggled till her cries 
Brought help, and they were saved for whom she died. 

Catholic martyr, when my soul denies g 
Because of creed a saint so sanctified 

May death in pity close my blinded eyes. 
Paris, Dec, 1877. 



154 SONNETS. 

ON THE DEATH OF PIOUS IX. 

AND so " thy hash is cooked," thou poor old man. 
Well, many a worse than thou hath held the key, 
And many worn the crown whose infamy 

Had better graced the losing. Partisan 

Of errors since condemned, thy reign began 
Amid the shouts of them thy will made free ; 
But not for long ; such schemes of liberty 

Might suit Mastai, but not the Vatican. 

No, and the change that made thy bounty wage 

This war upon the times, and vilify 
That which thine own heart held in appenage 

But proves that faith and love have rent their tie. 
Proves that faith, too, must soon, o'ercome with age, 

Say " sono fritto," and lie down and die. 

Paris, Feb. 8, 1878. 

"During the night he took strong doses of quinine; he suffered 
greatly and said: sono fritto (sic)." 



SONNETS. 155 

ON THE REPUBLICAN GAINS IN THE 
ELECTIONS OF MARCH, 1878. 

THE deed is surely better than ye know. 

This gradual awakening despite 

The holy league of priest and parasite ; 
This constancy through seven years that show 

No faltering ; this steady progress, slow 
But sure, toward the form that must unite 
All France in one ; this thing shall give you might 

To face for freedom's sake a different foe. 

Already do the German and the Slave 

Prepare; already haggle which shall trace 
The boundary dividing what your race 

May yet call home ; but this, if aught, shall save. 

Be one, and when they come 'twill give you grace 
To hurl them back or make your soil their grave. 

Paris, March 4, 1878. 



156 SONNETS. 



I WOULD to heaven I'd been born a priest. 

No turnip-eating Trappist — they're a sham ; 

But furnisher of sacerdotal balm 
To something swell, a baroness at least. 

How jolly it would be to share the feast, 
And then retire at ease, — I worship calm, — 
To conscientiously confess Madame, 

With Monsieur mounting guard till one had ceased. 

I always have admired the Roman way 

Of keeping and extending domination : 
In order to perpetuate their sway 

And shape the youthful mind by education, 
They gain the women — proof as clear as day 
There's nothing like a priest for penetration. 



SONNETS. 157 



I LOVED a dame of thirty years 
Whose face and figure could defy 
Suspicion of antiquity. 

I loved her eyes, her nose, her ears, 

I loved her smile, her frown, her tears 

(She wept sometimes, the Lord knows why, 
But then she'd only risk one eye) — 

In fact, for love I'd no compeers. 

To reach her heart in lovers' wise 
With all the skill that I possess 
I built a solid bridge of sighs ; 

Which only led me to distress ! 
For not a thing beneath the skies 

Could enter but " that next new dress." 



158 SONNETS. 



A L' OPERA. 

I'VE sought them where the spring begets 
The sweetest flowers that blow, 

I've sought them by the rivulets 
New-fed with alpine snow, 

I've sought the little anchorets 

In every land I know, 
But such a bed of violets 

Not one of them can show. 

Where all eyes gloat 
Without reserve, 
The modest bouquet rests ; 

Beneath thy proud imperial throat, 
Beneath thy shoulders' ample curve, 
Between thy perfect breasts. 



SONNETS. 159 



THE MAN IN THE MOON. 

FROM morn till night she worked away 
Beside her bird on the window-sill, 
And both together they sang with a will, 

For April was changing into May. 

And she had promised that every day 
She'd save up all her extra sous 
Till they had enough to go and choose 

A sweet little wife for her bird so gay. 

And she hurried her needle at such a rate 

That, long before the first of June, 
Her pretty companion had found a mate. 

But the poor little girl grew thoughtful soon. 
And she'd sit by her open window late 

And gaze for hours at the man in the moon. 



i6o SONNETS. 



BACKGROUNDS. 

THE hangings of our cabinet were blue 

At dinner, and each time she turned her head 
She looked so fair, so perfect, that I said 

For such a profile 'twas the only hue. 

And when I said it, 'pon my soul 'twas true ! 
But room and seat had changed as wooing sped, 
And all through supper I was sure that red 

Made far the better background of the two. 

How mighty is the force of circumstance ! 

It changeth good to bad, or dark to light, 
And turneth wisdom into ignorance. 

Why, that same evening, ere we said good-night, 
I'd sworn if any color could enhance 
The beauty of her features, it was white. 



SONNETS. l6l 



A SKETCH. 



TWO children talking by a balustrade : 
Below upon the walk, outside the stair, 
All summer-white, with massy raven hair 

Falling in curls, a languid, lisping maid 

Unleaves a rose. Her shoulders' curve has laid 
The bosom's rich warm dusky promise bare, 
But this she knows not, while her black eyes stare 

At nothing, hardly heeding what is said. 

Three steps above a blue-eyed, earnest boy 

Leans over on the ample stone at ease, 
With every feature beaming new-felt joy. 

And fearful lest the transient vision cease, 
He lengthens with the license bards employ 
The story of the famed Hesperides. 



1 62 SONNETS. 



A SWISS SCENE. 



HOW sweet it is to linger all alone 

Beside the shore, while summer skies are bright, 
And watch the little boats with steady flight 

Follow the wind toward the setting sun. 

Their painted sails the last ray falls upon 

Spread wing-and-wing, and, wonderfully white, 
Seem really wings of birds about to light 

Upon the water when their day is done. 

They come to me out of the distant haze 
A scattered fleet before a gentle wind, 
Laden with precious thoughts of other days ; 

And just as when I watched them from behind 
At starting, when they took their different ways 

New-painted on my nursery window-blind. 
Near Geneva. 



SONNETS. 163 



TO 



THOU oft hast told me how, when night 
Had blent the garden's wealth of green, 
And high o'er Leman's wave serene 

The moonbeam tipped the mountain height. 

From yonder window, robed in white, 
Thou'dst gaze as on a u fairy scene," 
While gentle music bade thee glean 

Thy sweet heart's fill of calm delight:— 

The full moon shines across the lake ; 

I hear a soft Italian air; 
The little ripples hardly break ; 

And all as then is passing fair — 
But thou art gone ! and these but wake 
The dreamy echoes of despair. 



1 64 SONNETS. 



"La blessure gu'erit, mats la ??iarque reste." 

Rousseau, Nouvelle Heloise. 

HAIL. Leman ! once again I rest 

Beside thy waters, fairest lake, 

And in their liquid azure slake 
The burning thirst that sears my breast. 

O now, where all thy banks are blest 
With Julie's love, for Julie's sake 
Remember all my wrongs, and break 

The spell by which my soul's oppressed. 

By Clarens's shades that veiled a love 
Profounder than the depths of thee, 
And purer than the snows above, — 

And by the rocks of Meillerie, — 
O send the heart I'm worthy of 
To cast this passion out of me ! 






SONNETS. 165 



" THEIR faith may be groundless I grant, but if those 
Who believe are made happy, if trusting they find 
That life's burden grows lighter to bear, is it kind 

To deprive them of all the relief it bestows? 

Why teach them a truth that must add to their woes ? 
Would you tell of the storm to the deaf and the 

blind ? 
If the flash of the lightning and howl of the wind 
Were unnoticed, unknown, would you break their 
repose ? ' ' 

Well said ; if they can, let them slumber, but pray, 

Is it our fault they hear us? must we that have eyes 
Lie still lest our feet wake the blind on the way? 

Are we to be blamed for the light in the skies 
If, seeing the dawn, we prepare for the day ? 
Go talk to the sun and forbid it to rise. 



1 66 SONNETS. 

A FUTURE LIFE. 

" A FUTURE LIFE? " I hate the very sound. 
Does man so feel for man, is earth so warm 
With love in all its workings multiform 
That we must turn away and cast around 

For worlds to vent it on ? Hath reason found 
A remedy against the dismal swarm 
Of Nature's ills, — the pestilence, — the storm. 

That it must seek a task beyond her bound ? 

Be thine this life, and whether prose or rhyme 
Live it, and leave the next, if next there be, 
To those unfortunates who make a crime 

Of all that's love and joy and sympathy, 
And like a cock-roach on the brink of time, 
Go wag their feelers at eternity. 



SONNETS. 167 



THE sweetest visions haunt me ever 

When no word's nigh ; 
The fairest thought escapes endeavor, 

Born but to die. 

Like hearts the weary wide waves sever, 

That ache and sigh, 
So yearn my thought and word, but never 

Find wings to fly. 

Yon birds that keep the wild wood ringing 

All day long, 
Are joyous, each emotion bringing 

Notes as strong. 
Ah, would that I had voice for singing 
My whole soul's song. 



1 68 SONNETS. 

MY PHILOSOPHY. 

I SAW good men at strife because a creed 

That half held sacred half had learned to shun ; 
And while their bodies rotted in the sun 

I thought ; — I thought of all the strength we need 

To war with nature ; — how men's interests, freed 
From misconception, still must ever run 
Athwart ; and ere my pondering was done 

I heard from lips of wounds that seemed to plead, — 

" Teach fact and judge not. Let the world have light. 

Show all to all, that all men's eyes may see 
The best and worst ; that stamped on all men's sight, 

Some sharp, some dull, the selfsame star may be 
The guide for all. Facts and not creeds unite." — 
Which forms the whole of my philosophy. 



SONNETS. 169 

EMANCIPATION. 

YEA, truly 'twas a glorious thing to set 

The black man free ; but was it worth the war 
That forty millions might change place with four ? 

Was't worth the unnumbered dead, the countless debt, 

The long-enduring enmity which yet 

Divides the land, that half a hundred score 
Of demagogues might own us ? might restore 

The yoke for us, and laugh to see us sweat ? 

Where are the poets, statesmen, warriors brave, 

Who sang and worked and fought till the disgrace 
Of negro servitude had found a grave ? 

Are all the champions of a downtrod race, 
Who howled for freedom when the black was slave, 
Dead ? Or has every living man a place ? 
July, 1S78. 



170 SONNETS. 

ioo° IN THE SHADE. 

'TWAS August on the banks of Delaware, 
And in his bed a hardened sinner lay ; 
While, anxious for the soul that ebbed away, 

A village pastor called the man to prayer. 

'Twas August ; not a single breath of air 
Disturbed the glorious sun's prolific ray, 
And o'er the buzzing of the flies at play 

A weak voice answered thus, no words to spare, — 

" Hell? Do you think that I'm afraid of hell? 
Haven't I fanned all seasons, wet and dry, 
For forty year ? Has any heated spell 

Set me to growling about this here sky ? ' ' 
The good man owned he'd born the climate well ; 
" Then go 'way, parson, I'm prepared to die." 



SONNETS. 1 7 

MIDSUMMER. 

HOW sweet to listen to the dove 
When all the rest forget to sing, 
And watch the swallows wantoning, 

And butterflies the gold whereof 

Comes sinking through the skies above 
Like feathers from an angel's wing. 
What comfort in the proof they bring 

Of perfect wisdom, perfect love. 

Why is it when the heart is stirred 
To praise of Him who rules on high, 
Of Him who made our earth and sky 

From nothing with a single word, 
Why is it that the little bird 
Will eat the butterfly ? 



172 SONNETS. 

A PARABLE. 

A CERTAIN farm had long been deemed the best 
Of all the country round ; but war, neglect, 
And folly joining, fields that once were decked 

With plenty turned to swamp where vile weeds pressed. 

And they were many brothers who possessed ; 

With minds like many ways that intersect ; 

All one in will to mend the fortune wrecked, 
But differing each from all in all the rest. 

Some simply wished to root away the weeds; 

Some counselled prayer, and others counselled spo.l ; 
Some sought the prophets of the new-born creeds ; 

And one there was for management and toil, 
Till choice of varied crops and different seeds, 
With time and culture, should renew the soil. 

Aug., 1S7S. 



SONNETS. 173 

TO J. R. LOWELL. 

PARDON the freedom of a friend unknown ; 

Nor wonder even I usurp the name ; 

For he who soweth on the winds of fame, 
As thou hast done, must reap what he hath sown. 

I love thee, for thy sins are like my own : 
I love thee, for thy burning lines proclaim 
Thee too a traitor to thy country's shame, 

And loyal to the right, and right alone. 

O veteran, comrade of the few that stand 

Where all the present and the past combine 
To light the future, tell us, hath the land 

Lost truth forever? Some whose faith like thine 
Would more than worship, seek from strand to strand, 
But where an altar stood is now a shrine. 
Aug. 5, 1878. 



174 SONNETS. 



UPON READING THE FOLLOWING SONNET 
BY MR. LONGFELLOW. 

" ONCE upon Iceland's solitary strand 

A poet wandered with his book and pen, 
Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, 
Wherewith to close the volume in his hand. 
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, 
The circling seagulls swept beyond his ken, 
And from the parting cloudrack now and then 
Flashed the red sunset over sea and land. 
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed 
A broken oar ; and carved thereon he read, 
' Oft was I weary when I toiled at thee ; ' 
And like a man who findeth what was lost 
He wrote the words, then lifted up his head 
And flung his useless pen into the sea." 



SONNETS. 175 



BUT one (the least of those that loved his song, 
And sought the secret of its melody), 
With still-admiring reverence for plea, 

Afar, unseen, had tracked his steps along : 

Who, witness of the ill -deserved wrong, 

Approaching, caught the pen from out the sea, 
And, brushing off the foam, beseechingly 

Offered it back, with words that love made strong. 

" Master, I speak who fitly should obey : 

For all thy lessons let me teach thee one, 
Taught by thyself although forgot to-day ; — 

While light remains the task is never done. 
' Morning and fervid noon have passed away ? ' 

Behold the beauty of the setting sun." 
Aug. 11, 1878. 



I7 6 SONNETS. 



THE WRITING OF THE ILIAD. 

NO longer did the Pride of Ilion wait, 
But fled before the friend of him laid low ; 
And swifter than a hound that hunts the roe, 

Achilles followed on the wings of hate. 

Twice had they passed the close-shut Scsean gate, 
And twice the springs that feed Scamander's flow 
(One warm that fumes, and one like melted snow), 

When came a clash that stayed impending fate. 

The poet, wincing, urged the race anew, 

But bound as in a dream by sudden spell, 
The Trojan stopped, nor could the Greek pursue. 

Then once again clanged out the horrid knell ; 
And driving every vision from his view, 

Came : " Ho — mer, don't you hear the dinner-bell? ,: 



SONNETS. 177 



A "WATERSCAPE." 

THE French fought hard, the British fleet 
Had quite as much as it could do, 
With each ship one or even two 

Tough customers that meant to beat. 

'Twas then his captain all replete 
With classic knowledge (this is true) 
At admiral, I wont say who, 

Got off a speech as apt as neat. 

" Now Victory stands clothed in doubt, 

While o'er Patroclus Greeks and Trojans 
Strain with sharp clash and horrid shout ! ' ' 

And then was heard 'twixt two explosions 
" I've something else to think about ; 

G — d — your Greeks and Trojans ! " 



178 SONNETS. 



SPIRITISM. 

I DEDICATE these lines to spiritism ; 

The real religio-philosophical. 

Kind reader, if you've ever had the — gale 
You'll know my feelings toward this Yankee schism. 

I've not had either, but my catechism 

Was just the thing to fill a hospital ; 

Thank fate, mine alimentary canal 
Was coated with a layer of " egotism." 

I've suffered though ; I've suffered till the name 

Is one with discord. Really something ought 

To rise and answer their eternal pow-wows, 

If only by its being to proclaim 

A future life and show that not for naught 
I damn them to the everlasting bow-wows. 



SONNETS. 179 

WELL, well, I've lost my heart again to-day ! 
I wonder if that pretty little thing 
Who came for chestnuts thought of rummaging 

Among the basketful she took away. 

She made me think of when I used to play 
With just such girls, as happy as a king. 
Her voice was like the birds' that used to sing 

Years, years ago ; and then so much to say. 

The dogs had killed a rabbit — " what a shame ! " — 

Spelling she liked but not geography. — 
Such lots of fun as soon as winter came. 

That hurricane blew down an apple tree. — 
Bran-bread anpl sugar pleased their horse : his name 
Was like the man's. — Not ten yet : soon should be. 

THE END. 



LIBRARY OF CONRRFQc 

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